


Cinnamon & Log Fires

by skylinehorizon



Series: Best Friends 'verse [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blind Character, Christmas, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:28:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylinehorizon/pseuds/skylinehorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve and Dean is bad at waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cinnamon & Log Fires

**Author's Note:**

> The boys are 14 in this instalment. Merry Christmas!

The air is very cold, and there are thick grey clouds that threaten snow building up in the sky. The streets are busy with everyone getting their last minute Christmas Eve shopping, and Dean would be grateful if he never has to set foot inside a mall again. Dean bursts through his front door, kicking off his boots in the entrance and pushes them to one side, out of the way. 

The house is warm and smells like cinnamon. Mary is in the kitchen baking and Sam reading a book in the living room, the fire crackling as it burns through the wood. 

 “Is that you, Dean?” Mary calls, poking her head out from the kitchen. 

 “Hey, mom,” he says, walking down the hallway and to the fridge in search of some apple juice. “What are you baking? Is it pie? God, I hope it’s pie.”

 She smiles at him and shakes her head. “It’s pie. I’m not telling you what flavor, though. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.” 

 He grumbles but she doesn’t indulge him it, instead rolling her eyes fondly as she goes back to the counter, wiping up some flour. 

 “Where’s dad?”

 “I sent him on a food run.”

 Dean hops up onto the kitchen surface, stealing a warm Christmas biscuit when his mom isn’t looking. 

 “I saw that,” she sing-songs. 

 “No you didn’t,” he sing-songs back. 

 The doorbell rings, cutting through their conversation, and Dean jumps down from the counter, calling, “I’ll get it!” over his shoulder as he goes. He opens the door to see Cas standing there, his nose pink, a woollen bobble hat on his head and a scarf tied around his neck. 

 “Dude. You look like an eskimo.” 

 A pause. “What do eskimos look like?”

 “They wear these giant--”

 Dean stops, noticing the twitch of Cas’ lips. Cas likes to tease, and Dean’s annoyed at how easily he falls for it. Fondly, he says, “You’re an idiot.”

 Cas grins and Dean steps back to let him through, punching him in the shoulder for good measure. 

 He props his cane in the corner - a space he’s claimed now as his own for this exact purpose - and toes his shoes off, sliding them neatly against the wall. Dean takes his coat, hat and scarf and hangs them on the hook nearest the door, and they wander into the living room to sit on the couch. 

 “Hey,” Sam says, looking up from his book. He’s nestled in the armchair next to the Christmas tree and is wrapped up in a blanket, looking relaxed and warm. 

 “Hello, Sam,” Cas says, settling down on the couch. Dean sits beside him, cross-legged. 

 The three of them relax and talk together for the better part of an hour before John comes home with several grocery bags. The five of them crowd into the kitchen, helping to pack everything away. They sit at the dinner table together and eat their traditional Christmas Eve dinner, and Dean walks Cas home afterwards, snow slowly drifting through the air. There’s already a few centimetres on the ground that crunches beneath their boots, and they stick close together, Dean hovering a hand behind Cas’ back in case he slips on hidden ice. 

 They get to Cas’ without incident, thankfully, and Dean says his goodbyes and says hello to Anna before turning back around and walking quickly through the cold night and to the warmth of his home.  

 ***

 Cas is woken by a _rat tat tat_ sound, like tapping against glass. The house is otherwise very quiet, and he’s sure it’s the middle of the night. His ears strain to hear the sound again.

 As he’s pulling back his blankets it happens again, and as he walks towards the window, he’s certain he knows what -- or _who_ \-- is making the sound.

 “Dean,” he says, once he’s slid the window up. Keeping his voice low, he says, “What are you doing?”  

 “I came to bring you your present.”

 Cas steps back and feels as Dean’s hand grips his shoulder, using him to steady himself as he climbs in. Dean lets go and Cas hears as the window closes again, both of them standing close in the middle of the room. 

 “What time is it?” Cas asks. 

 Dean’s voice comes from closer than he expects. “Nearly two. I would have come sooner, but Sam took forever to get to sleep.” 

 Cas smiles. “We’re seeing each other tomorrow.” 

 “I know,” Dean says, softly. “I’m bad at waiting.”

 Cas laughs quietly. He feels off-balance, slightly, still not properly woken up, and reaches a hand forward. His fingers wrap around the front of Dean’s shirt, soft and warm. It steadies him and he wants to know, suddenly, the expression on Dean’s face. 

 “Can I see you?” Cas asks quietly. 

 Instead of answering, Dean lifts the hand that isn’t wrapped in his t-shirt and directs it to his face. Cas lightly traces his fingertips over his forehead and down the slope of his nose, gently over his closed eyelids and across the curve of his lips. He lets his hand drop and smiles to himself at the way his best friend indulges him. 

 “This seems stupid, now,” Dean says. “It’s not a lot.”

 Cas feels something being pressed up against his chest. He wraps both his hands around it and takes it, feeling its weight in his hands. It’s very light, and squishy beneath the paper. He carefully tears the wrapping paper away, and sinks his hands into something extremely soft. 

 “You’re lucky you can’t see it. It’s pretty ugly. Mom helped me, and--”

 “Dean. What am I holding?”

 He runs his hands over it, over the varied textures and bumps and loose threads. Some sections are softer than others, and he runs the pad of his thumb over a part that feels silky. 

 “A blanket. It’s not big. I thought… I mean, I know different textures are good, right? And it’s winter, so it’s cold. Mom helped me. She knitted most of it, but I chose the materials, and I did a few sections, so…”

 He trails off, unsure. Cas’ cheeks are beginning to ache from grinning. 

 “You knitted me a blanket?”

 “You tell Sam and I _swear_ I will kill you.”

 Cas pulls Dean towards him, wrapping his arms tight around him, squeezing. He feels as all the air comes out of Dean and then Dean is hugging back, squeezing back just as hard. 

 “Merry Christmas, Cas,” Dean whispers. 

 Cas pulls back and says, “Your present is downstairs. We can go get it if--”

 “No,” Dean says. “It’s okay. Tomorrow. I just wanted to give you yours. I’ll let you go to sleep now.” 

 They stand in silence for a few moments, and then Cas hears as Dean steps back. Cas follows him to the window, and Dean slowly climbs out of it, whispering a quiet, “Goodnight,” before he’s gone and Cas is closing the window once again. 

 Cas crawls into bed with his new gift in one hand, and falls asleep with its scratchy-soft material woven around his fingers.


End file.
